Deception On the Danube

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “You missed the news conference,” the desk sergeant said.

  “But can’t you tell me something now?”

  “It’s not my job to do that,” said the flic who, to Burke, was clearly enjoying the moment.

  “OK, is Chief Inspector Alex Eisler around?”

  The sergeant glanced at his computer for an instant and then shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like it. I guess you’ll have to get the information in another way.”

  Burke was angry, but said nothing, just nodded and left the station. Outside, he texted Karl Plaschke, asking for the latest information. After a half hour, he still hadn’t received a response. He checked social media and read that the police were saying they were continuing their investigation of the ramming attack. The driver was facing a series of charges, including murder, and wasn’t going to be released on bail. Terrorism wasn’t involved.

  Without other ideas, Burke gave up and strolled into the centre of the city. He went into a couple of shops, bought a beautiful silk scarf for Hélène and then grabbed a coffee and cake at a café bordering Stephansplatz. He tried to sit back and watch the world go by, but his mind kept bouncing from Felicity Blake to Niklaus Gast to the inner circle to Karl Plaschke.

  As he was paying his bill, Burke received a text. It was from Plaschke who said the police weren’t pursuing the investigation into Felicity Blake. “Not enough evidence plus she’s a victim of the ramming attack. Too much public sympathy for her. Superiors not interested. Case closed.”

  It was done. She was free of suspicion. She could get on with her life.

  But Burke still wanted to talk with her.

  Chapter 73

  Burke spent the next two days not doing much. Since Felicity Blake was still not having visitors, Burke produced a static blog and a video blog for Lemaire, both focusing on the aftermath of the ramming attack. The content was hardly special, but his editor seemed satisfied. Burke also talked with Hélène a couple of times by phone, assuring her he was fine and would be home soon. He knew he had to be. Besides wanting to be back in his French Riviera village, Burke knew his absence from the Nice TV panel show was starting to be noticed. It was a gig he didn’t want to lose. He didn’t need his bank account to start dropping again.

  On the final day in his Maria-Theresien apartment, Burke began with a phone call to the hospital.

  This time, Felicity Blake was open for visitors.

  Burke didn’t bother finishing his coffee. Instead, he dressed quickly and went looking for a taxi. He found one within a block and, 20 minutes later, he was walking down a sterile corridor toward Felicity Blake’s room.

  He hoped she had a private room.

  She did.

  Burke poked his head into the room and saw Blake watching a small TV anchored to a nearby wall. Hooked up to a saline solution on one side and to some kind of monitor on the other, she was no longer the beautiful, athletic young woman he knew; she looked 10 years older, tired and pale with the right side of her face sporting several small sutures, a black eye and some scrapes. Her left leg was obviously the broken one because it was covered by a special blanket and was twice the size; Burke wondered if it was in some kind of cast.

  “Ah, a visitor,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.

  “How are you doing?” Burke said, noticing two vases of flowers in a corner of the room.

  Blake shut off the TV, put the remote control on a table beside her and waved at her face and then her leg. “I’ve been better, but it could have been much worse,” she said, her voice a little brittle. “I’ve heard about people who didn’t make it and about others who are in critical condition.”

  “It must have been horrible.”

  “Please sit, Paul.”

  Her use of his first name made Burke uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything, just did as he was told, pulling his chair to within a metre of where she was stretched out.

  “It was horrible,” she said. “The van came out of nowhere. I heard screams, turned around and it was right on me, hitting me on my left side, mostly on my leg, and sending me catapulting through the air into other runners. If I hadn’t bounced into them, I could have struck a light standard or even a building and that would have been far worse, maybe even fatal.”

  She shuddered at the thought, pausing as she recalled those moments.

  “What happened then?”

  “I saw the van plow into more runners and then crash into the side of some store. By then, everything was chaos. There were so many people on the ground, screaming – and some weren’t screaming at all, just lying motionless, probably dead. Then I passed out, but I don’t think it was for more than a few seconds. When I came to, I knew I had broken my leg although I didn’t know how badly.”

  Burke looked at the leg but said nothing.

  “As it turned out, both my tibia and fibula are broken. My kneecap, too.”

  “It must have hurt like hell,” said Burke, not knowing what else to say at that moment.

  “Actually, it didn’t, at least initially. I knew my leg was broken because I could see it was twisted in an odd way. And I knew something was wrong with my kneecap because it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. I was probably already in shock at that moment. A couple of minutes later, though, the pain kicked in and it was terrible.”

  Burke, who knew about broken bones from his own accidents as a pro cyclist, understood. The mind shut down the pain receptors until it figured out what was happening and then, once it understood what had occurred, it released waves of pain. If the person was really lucky after that, shock would take over and diminish the anguish.

  “What’s the prognosis?” he asked.

  “The specialist wants the swelling to go down a little more before making a final decision. He told me yesterday I’d have to have at least one operation to deal with my knee, and probably more than one surgery to repair the bones in my leg.”

  “When will you know?”

  “In another day or two,” she replied, not sounding at all optimistic.

  “How’s your head?”

  “I had a headache yesterday, but it’s gone today.” She gingerly touched the right side of her face. “The stitches will leave a couple of small scars, but I’m not worried about that.”

  Burke thought the sutures would leave more than “small scars” but he said nothing. Besides, he wasn’t sure he cared.

  A 40ish nurse interrupted them, taking Blake’s blood pressure and doing a quick examination of her. “How’s your pain?” she asked Blake in reasonable English.

  “It’s not too bad.”

  “If it gets worse, just tap that button there for some relief. If it gets very bad, just buzz us and someone will be here to help. And, remember, you don’t need to show anyone how tough you are.”

  Then she left.

  “They’re doing a good job looking after me,” Blake said with a smile. Then she asked what Burke was still doing in Vienna since the tour was over.

  “I have a few days off before I need to go back home so I thought I’d do some sightseeing. I’ve only been to Vienna once before” – a lie since he’d been in the capital a half dozen times – “and I wanted to explore it.”

  “What about your partner, the one who was helping in the kitchen?”

  “Hélène is back at home and back at work. But what about you? Do you have any family coming here to help you?”

  “My sister is flying in tomorrow from Manchester. She couldn’t get away earlier.”

  Burke nodded, wondering if her parents were alive.

  “My parents are quite elderly and coming here would be very hard on them,” Blake said. “Joanie, that’s my sister, will keep them posted on my condition.”

  “Any decision on your husband’s funeral?”

  “The police still haven’t released his body yet,” she said, shaking her head slightly. “They say they need it as part of completing their investigation.”


  Burke nodded. And waited.

  “The whole trip, everything, has been a huge disaster, the worst time of my life,” she said. “It’s hard to believe all the things that have happened, that have gone so tragically wrong.”

  The time was right and Burke leaned forward, staring at her. “So why did you kill Wilson Talbot?”

  Her eyes flashed at him, not so much in surprise, but with some other kind of response. Burke thought he saw anxiety, then fear that she had been discovered. A moment later and she looked puzzled. She had regained control, almost as quickly as Niklaus Gast had earlier by the Prater.

  “What are you talking about?” she said slowly.

  “You killed Wilson Talbot. He was your lover and you lured him up to the castle ruins in Dürnstein on the evening he died. You had some . . .”

  “You’re crazy! You can’t believe that.”

  “You lured him up there and surprised him, pushing him over that ledge, hoping he’d somehow fall to his death. And when he did … .”

  “Stop it! Stop it right now!”

  “… and when he did die, you had what you wanted. He’d told you about your husband’s involvement in the child-pornography ring …”

  “I’m calling the nurse,” Blake said, reaching for the intercom phone.

  “… and when he died, his secret went with him or so you thought. You believed you were free from the shame that comes from …”

  The same middle-aged nurse entered the room and quickly saw how agitated her patient was.

  “Get him out of here – now!” Blake exploded, pointing to the door, her face contorted in rage.

  “Sir, you must go,” the nurse said, taping Burke on the shoulder.

  Burke stood but didn’t go. He stared at Felicity Blake. “You were afraid of the shame that would come once everyone knew about your husband. So you eliminated that threat – and Wilson Talbot.”

  “You need to leave now,” the nurse said, trying to push Burke away.

  Burke allowed himself to be manoeuvred closer to the door. “The police may not know it yet, but I know – and you know – what the truth is, what really happened.”

  That’s when the nurse called security on her intercom phone.

  “I’m done and I’m leaving,” said Burke, giving Felicity Blake a final look. “Good luck with your future.”

  As he moved into the hallway, Burke heard her call out: “You’re a bastard, a bloody bastard!”

  Chapter 74

  Burke was half way down the corridor to the elevator when he heard Blake’s nurse call out to him. He turned and saw her jogging his way, just as a tall, uniformed security guard appeared from around the corner and another, younger nurse rushed into Blake’s room.

  “I don’t know what you were trying to do, but if I see you anywhere near the hospital again, I will have security detain you for the police,” the nurse snapped. “Do you understand?”

  Burke was calm. He had done what he had wanted to. “You won’t see me here again.”

  “Good. Make sure I don’t.”

  Burke started walking again. He could feel her eyes staring into his back. Then he heard her explaining to the security guard what had happened. A moment later, as he stood waiting for the elevator, Burke was joined by the security guard, a 30ish man who, up close, looked like he lifted a lot of weights.

  “I’m going to accompany you to ensure you leave the building,” the guard said in German.

  “I don’t intend to make any trouble.”

  “I’m here to make sure you don’t.”

  When the elevator opened into the busy foyer, another security guard was waiting. He wasn’t as tall or as well built as the first officer, but he looked like he could handle himself. With the two guards escorting him, Burke marched toward the entrance of the hospital. As he was about to leave, the first guard tapped him on the shoulder. “I don’t know yet what happened up there, but don’t come back again,” he said, one hand on the taser hooked to his belt.

  Burke nodded and left. Outside, he kept moving without looking back. He knew the guards were still watching him. It didn’t matter, though. He wouldn’t be back. He didn’t need to because he had his answer.

  Felicity Blake had killed Wilson Talbot.

  Chapter 75

  Burke didn’t stop walking until he spotted a U-Bahn stop 20 minutes later. He went down the stairs and took the subway to Stephansplatz. When he emerged back into the sunlight, he saw thousands of people, most of them probably tourists. The incident at the half marathon seemed further in the past than a couple of days.

  Feeling strangely exhilarated, Burke strolled the city’s geographical centre, once again enjoying the energy of those around him and the beauty of the area’s countless majestic buildings. He wished Hélène was with him, but she had run out of time. And in a way, he was fine being alone. He needed to harness his thoughts.

  His phone rang. It was Karl Plaschke. “We need to talk,” the flic said by way of greeting.

  “OK, when and where?”

  Plaschke said they should meet in a half hour at the café where they had been the other day. Burke agreed and then asked why couldn’t they talk on the phone.

  “It’s better the way I’m suggesting,” Plaschke said and hung up.

  Obviously, something was wrong, Burke thought. He figured it had to involve his visit to Felicity Blake’s hospital room. She had probably complained to the hospital administration who, in turn, had probably called the police. Someone there had flagged his name and the information had reached Karl Plaschke, among others.

  Or so Burke guessed.

  He arrived first at the café and ordered an espresso and a glass of water. Five minutes later, Plaschke showed up. He was dressed in plainclothes and sporting an angry look. “What the hell did you think you were doing?” Plaschke said, this time in French, as he pulled out a chair and sat.

  Burke shrugged. “I had to know.”

  “Know what? How to make the staff at a hospital so concerned that they call the police? How to piss off my superiors so much they want me to warn you of the consequences?”

  That’s when the server, who looked barely 20, showed up with Burke’s coffee and water. Aware of Plaschke’s anger, he stopped a metre from the table, unsure what to do next. “It’s fine, you can serve him,” Plaschke said in German.

  He ordered his own coffee and the server quickly escaped. The interruption had taken some of the steam out of Plaschke, but Burke could see he was still annoyed.

  “She’s making all kinds of accusations about you,” Plaschke said.

  “Felicity Blake?”

  “Don’t play the fool. This is no time for games. She says you harassed her just as you’ve harassed her before, both on the Sunna and away from the ship. And she’s got people listening.”

  Burke wasn’t surprised about the hospital-related complaint, but the allegation he had harassed her earlier was another matter. He hadn’t expected that. “Who’s paying attention to her?”

  “Some of my bosses.”

  “Do they believe her?”

  “To them, she’s a victim, a beautiful young woman whose husband was brutally murdered after being involved in an ugly blackmail arrangement and who, while grieving, was badly injured running in the local half marathon. They may be tough, old-time cops but that story has somehow connected with them. Which means you could be in trouble if you ask more questions of anyone.”

  Burke nodded. He was done looking into Wilson Talbot’s death. And in another day, he’d be long gone from Vienna. Still, he felt some anxiety. If the police wanted to charge him with interfering in a police investigation or with harassing Felicity Blake, he might have a real problem. “I understand. You can be assured I won’t be any more trouble.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  Recalling the hospital scene, Burke wasn’t done, though. If anything, he was feeling more confident and even a littl
e angry “Of course, you know she needed to complain about me. If she didn’t, she’d look guilty.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When the nurse came into the room, she heard me accuse Felicity of a serious crime. If Felicity didn’t object at that exact moment and do so with a lot of anger, the nurse might have thought there was something to what I was saying and maybe report the incident to her superiors. After that, who knows? Maybe someone recounts the situation to the police.”

  “But she did complain.”

  “She did which is exactly what an innocent person would do – but also what a clever guilty person would do as well.”

  Plaschke shook his head. “That’s flimsy.”

  “It is, but here’s a prediction: She won’t make an official complaint against me.”

  “She’s already complained.”

  “But she hasn’t pressed the police to officially investigate my behaviour, right?”

  “That’s true.”

  “If she did, you people might end up digging into the whole Wilson Talbot case again and she doesn’t want that. She doesn’t want you hearing my arguments once more and maybe my putting some doubt in your minds. Of course, she doesn’t know that your bosses aren’t interested in examining his death any further.” Burke paused to sip his espresso, hoping it would show Plaschke how confident he was of his logic. “No, she’ll just complain but she won’t encourage any official investigation.”

  “That may be so, but it was still reckless. And it could hinder any future investigation into Talbot’s death.”

  “But you told me there won’t be one.”

  Plaschke shrugged. “My superiors don’t want one, given the various circumstances and the lack of hard evidence. But I might keep looking into her involvement from time to time – in an unofficial capacity.”

  “So you think she killed Talbot.”

  “I don’t know that. But I don’t know that she’s innocent, either.”